On desolation row.

I scowl at the crosses, damned banners
honoring good works, the stars and stripes
atop every tall building; and I smile

at the red-cheeked man running for the bus.
At his feet are litter and ice; on the trashcan
a sign reminds us every litter-bit hurts.

It gets even colder.

Do the thinly dressed sit in the cathedral
for solace or warmth? Where do they go
to sleep? I know I'm entitled to nothing
but I don't want to be a democracy
(all never could just be for one
in my attic).

It goes like this: first, the scene where they dangle bread
before the hungry. Then the other
where they applaud loud and long, the scene before
I wake and ask, Who are the they?

Just noise.

They are incoherent. They are not complacent, except in
not being complacent.
They are tired. Some are
angry. They want, bless, confess. I can't read

the immense countenance of streets or sky.
A sign reads, Jesus saves. One of many.
Saved from what? Better not
to ask.
Saved by the process
of saving.

I'd get there eventually
tall, heavy-shouldered, blistering
in the sun.
Burning up I'd head in, toward the new save;
in the elevator I'd stand, suspect among co-workers,
smelling their sick breaths as good morning

dull echoes of good morning, good morning,
my keys in my coat pocket.
Saved just in time for dessert.